


love is a prime number

by Anemoi



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:39:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3635208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anemoi/pseuds/Anemoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cris and Gareth from not-really friends to not-quite lovers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love is a prime number

**Author's Note:**

> my coping mechanism against shitty rm fans + the media in general.

It all comes to a head in the middle of a training session, because of course it does. Gareth doesn't even recall the events that lead up to it, because it was probably a thousand thousand little things. The way they've stopped greeting each other in the mornings. The way their congratulatory hugs feel stiff and were over too quickly. The way Cristiano frowns at him for every little mishandled pass.

It does come down to this- Cristiano makes a bad tackle on him in training. Gareth's breath whooshes out of him all at once as he ends up flat on his back, the back of his head hurting. His ears ring. Marcelo and Isco laugh somewhere behind him, but its an uneasy laugh, as though they've all just realised its a bit more serious than any of them had thought.

Luka gives him a hand up. Cristiano's just standing there, stubbornly pretending he was talking to Pepe, and it makes Gareth's teeth hurt, the effort it takes to stop himself from heading over and knocking him the fuck down.

He doesn't. He turns around and laughs it off, and they resume passing the ball around, and Cristiano doesn't look at him, not even once.

 

 

-

 

Later he pulls on Cristiano's arm for a moment, when they were both showered. It felt kind of vulnerable, standing in the heat of the steams, between all the riotous shouting of their teammates. Gareth leans in to let himself be heard over Sergio's whoops. “Can you stay behind for a bit?”

He thinks its only because he'd caught Cristiano at the right time. Cristiano blinks once, quickly, the beads of water not even dried on his eyelashes. He nods.

 He misses that moment of half intimacy when he does get Cristiano alone. They're both clothed now, Gareth's hair dripping in to his collar because its gotten that long. He snaps his hairband out to shake the water off it, wraps it twice around his wrist. Cristiano's fussing with his shirt buttons across from him, clearly trying to delay the inevitable.

Finally Gareth clears his throat and walks over. He says, trying to summon the calmness he's sure he has in him, “Do you have a problem with me?”

Cristiano turns to face him, slowly. His eyes were disbelieving, blank. “With you? Why would I have a problem with you?”

_He doesn't mean it that way._ Gareth thinks to himself, trying to take deep breathes. _Thats not derision in his voice._

“You seemed pretty angry in training today. I mean I'm sure you have things to deal with – personally-” Gareth runs a hand through his wet hair, frustration catching up with him, the thoughts muddy in his mind. “But tell me whats wrong because we have to work together, ok?”

“Theres nothing wrong.” Cristiano says, flat.

“Ok, I know you're in denial or whatever but its clear that you haven't- You're not talking to me properly.”

Cristiano doesn't answer. The waves of anger rising off him were about as palpable as the steam from the showers.

“Are you leaving?” Gareth says, disbelieving. “Will you just-” He reaches out a hand to stop Cris, meaning to grab his arm or his shoulder or something, but Cristiano snarls, shoves him away.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Gareth says. He walks slowly towards Cristiano, hands clenched against his sides.

Cristiano laughs, and there was no way Gareth can pretend that there wasn't derision there, because derision was invented for the way Cristiano Ronaldo's eyebrows arch and the way his lip curls. Cristiano turns around, ready to leave.

“No fucking wonder your girlfriend left you.” Gareth says. It was a low blow, the worst he could think of, filled to the brim with anger with no room left for thought. It was a _wrong_ blow, and he knows it as soon as the words slide out of his mouth to sit in the air between them.

Cristiano's eyes open wide. He steps close, and the next thing Gareth knows - his head slams back in to the wall behind him, his bottom lip stinging and blood running in to his mouth. He looks up and Cristiano's face is no longer furious. He looks horrified, and his hands were reaching out and he was saying something in portuguese interspersed with sorrys.

 

Gareth punches him in the jaw.

 

-

 

 

“What the fuck.” Cris says again, the second time in about 2 minutes. He turns to glare at Gareth. They were both sprawled on the benches, knees touching. Gareth had slid down weakly first, feeling stars fade in and out of his line of vision, and Cris had followed him soon after, nursing a swollen jaw. Gareth tries to recall the last time he'd punched someone, and arrives at the memory of 11th grade, some on-pitch brawl where a 17 year old defender had gotten too eager with his tackles.

“I have a concussion. You gave me a bloody concussion.” Gareth announces. He feels lightheaded, mostly within reason, and he's laughing helplessly all of a sudden at the expression of outrage on Cris' face.

Cristiano looks at him for a beat, then he turns away, smiling.

“Ow.” He says immediately, wincing at the pain in his jaw. Gareth laughs harder, even though it hurt his bust lip, and feels stupid, ridiculous. But the way Cristiano's hiding his smile behind his hand shifts something in him, like a key turning in a lock.

 

-

 

They don't go back to what they were before ( _before Real started losing and everything turned to shit,_ is what Gareth supplies in his mind), but since there was always a polite veil of professional indifference between them then, it was actually sort of preferable. Gareth doesn't start in surprise when Cristiano claps him on the back in training the next day. He turns around, and internally laughs at the fact that Cris was wearing foundation to hide the bruise on his jaw. Luka had looked at him quizzically, half amused, and pointed at his own mouth, asking, “What happened?”

“I...walked in to a door.” Gareth says. Luka raises his eyebrows like _right. Whatever you say._ Cristiano snorts softly from across them.

They move better together, or maybe its just that Cristiano seems less angry, more focused, and so they fall in to sync like they haven't for a long time. Karim gives them surprised looks, but doesn't mention anything. Marcelo yells across the pitch with his hands around his mouth, megaphone style, “Are you two back in the honeymoon stage?”

Gareth gives him the finger without looking, passes the ball and watches Cristiano trap it perfectly under his boot.

 

-

 

There are fans waiting by the gates as he drives out of Valdebebas after training, but he doesn't stop or look at them. Gareth feels precarious. That is, he pushes the memory of the fans' boos out of his head after a game, he stays carefully away from sports tabloids, news headlines, he clears his mailbox straight in to the trash. He still doesn't understand how people dragged themselves all the way out here to stand by the roadside and flash a sign that says “Sell Bale” in glittery, badly drawn letters. He does, however, wave to that group, gives them a thumbs up and an exaggerated megawatt smile. Maybe Cristiano's rubbing off on him.

His phone rings on the way and he says absently, “Hello?” holding it between his head and shoulder.

“Gareth. I wanted to ask if you wanted to, uh, come over. To get dinner.” Cristiano's voice was unexpected, and Gareth's hand swerves a little on the steering wheel. Somebody hits the horn behind him and he sits straighter, corrects the wheel.

“Is this an apology?” He says slowly.

“Do you want it to be?” Cris says, testy.

“Whatever. I'll come.” Gareth says, and takes the next exit off the highway.

 

 

-

 

 

“Oh my god.” Gareth says, throws down his controller on the seat next to him. He turns to Cristiano, who's grinning like a cheshire, eyes still glued to the tv. “You've got to be kidding.”

In reply Cristiano lets out a celebratory shout and points at the screen, where he'd beaten Gareth solidly at Mario Kart. It'd been an unspoken agreement that they'd left off FIFA, but Gareth was starting to suspect that Cris wasn't even good at FIFA. He was a pro at fucking _Mario Kart_. Gareth buries his head in two cushions to try and drown out Cris' whoops, then chucks them at him, mildly irritated but stupidly fond.

“Rainbow fucking road.” Gareth groans, muffled around the throw pillow on his face. Cris pulls it off him, smiling. He looks far too proud of himself like that, flushed, with his hair ruffled. Gareth catches himself staring.

The bell rings, and Cris bounds up to get their takeaway.

 

Cris insists on actually eating their takeaway off real plates, ignoring Gareth's protests that it defeats the actual point of getting takeaway. “You'll have to wash the dishes.”

Cris shrugs. “The housekeeper can do that tomorrow.”

Gareth looks at him, aghast. He opens his mouth, then gives up, gets up to scrape the remaining food off his plate.

Cris follows him to the kitchen, pouting. Gareth says, squeezing dish soap on to a sponge, “You're 30 years old and you leave the plates in the kitchen for a day?” He spares a glance at Cris, wondering if it'd been too condescending to say, but Cris was smiling faintly, leaning on the counter beside Gareth. The kitchen's filled with huge windows, clean panes of glass that lets the dying sunlight in and looks out on to Cris' back yard. The pool shimmers in the light, little bits of gold stuck on the wavelets made by the evening breeze. Gareth runs their forks under the water, but he's looking at Cristiano. Looking at the way Cristiano's face seems pensive, not focused as he was in the middle of a game. He files it away, a Cristiano face that he hadn't seen before.

Cris catches his glance. Gareth blurts, “Why did you ask me to come over?”

Cris shrugs, looks back towards the windows.

“I haven't got anything you don't have already.” Gareth says, apropos of nothing. He starts soaping the plates, doggedly doesn't look back at Cristiano. And so Gareth doesn't know what face Cris makes when he says, soft, “Oh? You think you haven't got anything I want?”

Gareth opens his mouth to reply, but he suddenly realises that Cris had moved closer, their hips touching. He turns around and Cristiano's hands are around his face-

Gareth drops the plate in to the sink. It splashes to the bottom, makes an alarming noise that might mean its broken, but he isn't looking because Cristiano's hands cups his jaw, and he's licking in to his mouth. Gareth's hands settle on Cris' hips, his thumbs grazing against Cris' skin under that ridiculous gucci belt.

Cris shivers- Gareth's hands were wet with soapsuds, but they only stay like that, kissing by the kitchen sink, the crickets chirping quietly outside. Cris's eyelashes looks brown-gold when Gareth finally pulls back.

"Sorry," Cristiano says first, immediately. He looks a little too beautiful, but real. Human. standing there, out of breath. Gareth lifts his hands, realising he'd left wet imprints of his hands on Cris' shirt. He laughs, says, "me too?" and it sounds like he's asking something else instead.

 

Cris cracks a slow smile. "Right. Okay."

 

-

It doesn't get better, their overall situation, even though the Ronaldo-Bale situation seems to improve. It's not like Cris doesn't scream at him on the pitch anymore, its just Gareth lets it roll off like rain off his jacket during training. The days blend together, and they stay behind after every training period like two fanatics trying to outrace each other.

Their time together usually winds down to sitting in the middle of the pitch, sipping from their bottles. Gareth watching Cris squint at the sun, bits of grass stuck to his sweaty calves. Sometimes they kiss, lazy, more like an afterthought than anything with intention, and Cristiano's mouth tastes like fruit punch flavored gatorade.

Sometimes Gareth goes over to Cristiano's, and they do ordinary things, like play Fifa, or ProEvo. Talk about the day's training sessions over takeout. Gareth talks about Emma too, sometimes, how she's doing with Alba in Wales. As the days slide slowly towards summer, they also sit by the pool. Gareth brings his own sunscreen, vastly aware of his tendency to burn when exposed to any sun.

“This isn't-” Cristiano says one day, waving a hand, supplies a vague suggestion to whatever it was he doesn't want to articulate. His sunglasses flash straight in to Gareth's eyes when he turns his head to look at him.  
Gareth shrugs. “Right.” He carries on rubbing the sunscreen in to his upper thigh, feeling ominously that it was probably too late, his skin already feeling a little too tender to the touch. _This isn't anything. This isn't a relationship. This isn't going to continue._ Gareth gets the gist of it.

But Cris was laughing at him, soft. “It's April, Bale. This isn't even proper sunlight.”

Gareth throws the tube of sunscreen at him, which doesn't meet the intended target because Cristiano ducks.

It wasn't going to last anyway, because they were- they were the same in all the wrong ways. But Cristiano was here, right now, close enough to touch. He grins like he knows what Gareth was thinking, rolls over, perfect abs tensing.

“What the fuck.” Gareth laughs, “Is this a competition?”

Cris stretches in answer, strategic, miles of golden tanned skin on display. He reaches out and tugs sharply at Gareth's too-long strands of hair.

“Cut your hair.” He says. It didn't sound like a question.

“Fuck off.” Gareth says, and bends down to soften his words with a kiss.

 

-

 

Gareth thinks that the world would be an easier place if they could win matches by sheer desire to do so. In reality they keep hitting dead ends, no matter how long they stay after practice, how many balls Gareth chases after and Cristiano kicks. Real wins narrowly. Real loses. Real draws. Real draws. Real loses again, and the media anvil descends, and Gareth keeps driving past the boys holding the “Sell Bale” sign on his way to training, stretches his mouth wide in a smile, waves at them, still the same old, same old.

After a particularly bad loss and when winning the title race has consequently become anything but likely, Gareth opens the door to Cristiano, who's holding a six pack of beer.

“Classy.” Gareth informs him, and lets him in, hand lingering on the back of his faux leather jacket. Cris just stares at him like he doesn't understand what the word means. They don't end up fucking against the wall, like all the other times after losses before this one. Instead Cristiano stretches out on the couch, reads aloud headlines from google searching their names, which seems like the worst sort of masochism for a night like this. They run out of Cris' beer, and Gareth brings the wine Emma's parents sent him.

It becomes sort of hilarious, towards the end, detachable from their actual situation. “Gareth Bale to transfer to Manchester United next?” He reads aloud, trying not to dissolve in to laughter.

“No. No you got it wrong. It says _Cristiano Ronaldo_ to Manchester United.” Cris says, mock serious, then gives up and howls with laughter. He drops his head, heavy, on to Gareth's lap. Gareth curls a hand over his throat, and they're both quiet then. Cris sighs, just the faintest exhalation that Gareth can feel in the fall of his chest.

“Maybe we'll both go to Manchester United.” he looks down at Cris, hoping that cracks a laugh. Cris indulges him, arches his eyebrows, smirk playing across his lips.

“Till then?” Gareth says. Raises his glass weakly.

“Till then, the next match.” Cristiano finishes for him. He takes Gareth's wine out of his hand and sets it down on the table. Then he climbs on top of Gareth and their bodies fit along each other, plane to plane and angle to angle, even if it was just for a moment.

 

-

 

 

Before they go out on to the pitch, Gareth feels Cristiano's hand on the back of his shirt, thumb warm against his neck. 'We'll give them hell.' He says. Gareth thinks about transience. The flags above the Bernabeu stretched out and rippling in the wind. Sergio saying to him, serious eyed, that he deserved every million it took to get him here, on this pitch, in this white shirt, with this crest above his drumming heart. Then he stops thinking, empties himself out of thought and in to motion, because here was a new game, and a new game is a new start.

 

Then he's running out behind Cristiano, the crowd's roar crashing like an ocean wave in his ears. If there are boos, he doesn't hear them. 

**Author's Note:**

> "Love is a prime number. There's always another one for you to find." - A Softer World
> 
>  
> 
> thank you for reading <3


End file.
